


It Comes With a Crimson Wind

by umakoo



Series: Age of Sail [2]
Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Pirates, Slow Burn, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3729241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umakoo/pseuds/umakoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pirate/Age of Sail AU in which Tom is a high-ranking Naval officer and Chris is the captain of the infamous pirate ship Crimson Wind. Tom is determined to catch Chris after being humiliated by him and his crew, but sometimes first impressions can be misleading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Comes With a Crimson Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mjnobody](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mjnobody), [curds_and_wheyface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/gifts).



> Originally inspired by [**this lovely piece of art**](http://velvet-toucher.tumblr.com/post/83801605069/hostage-just-a-hiddlesworth-sketch-pirate) by the talented velvet-toucher. I did quite a bit of research for this AU, but please don't expect 100% historical accuracy ;) The story takes place during a nebulous period of time in the 18th century and I've taken some artistic liberties to paint a more romanticized picture of pirate life for storytelling purposes.
> 
> I had a lot of help from my friends and I'd like to thank curds-and-wheyface, teresa-dances-in-sequins, schaudwen, thorkizilla, sheilatakesabow and i-dance-inside-my-mind for beta'ing, cheerleading and agreeing to be my guinea pigs <3
> 
> I also discovered and played through Assassin's Creed: Black Flag while I was waiting to get the fic back from my beta readers and I have a [**small collection of inspirational photos from the game**](http://umakoo.tumblr.com/tagged/asscreed) reblogged to my blog on Tumblr in case anyone wants to take a look :)
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning for some brief medical gore and surgery.**

The attack had come out of nowhere, so sudden that no one had even had time to raise the alarm. There was wooden debris all over the deck from the main mast, which lay broken between the crew and the quarter deck. The air still carried a heavy smell of gunpowder and it was difficult to see through the cloud of red smoke that shrouded the deck, its source a complete mystery to Thomas. He could barely make out the men next to him, let alone whoever had attacked them.

 

“Surrender or die,” came a gruff command. It was followed by the booming sound of a musket being fired somewhere to Thomas’s right, and he bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out. Next to him a young midshipman startled and dropped his rapier from his hands. The weapon hit the deck with a loud clank, and Thomas saw some of the other young lads cover their ears as another encouraging shot was fired somewhere behind them.

 

Most of the men in his crew were wet behind the ears, their eyes wide with fear as they looked to Thomas for courage and guidance. This may have been his first assignment and his first time commanding his own ship, but Thomas knew his recent promotion came with a heavy burden of responsibility. He had spent half of his life at sea, doing his very best to move up in the ranks, and now, at the age of twenty and seven, he had finally been made junior post-captain, which meant he was responsible for all the young men around him.

 

The cloud of red smoke began to fade away, and its source turned out to be a small pouch someone had flung on the deck from the enemy vessel. A most efficient distraction if one’s aim was to completely blindside one’s opponent during boarding.

 

“It’s alright, men,” Thomas said, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, straightening his back as a large dark-skinned man emerged from the lingering shroud of smoke, his pistol pointed directly at Thomas’s face.

 

“Surrender or die,” the man repeated, and a moment later, there were at least forty weapons pointed at Thomas and his crew: muskets and pistols, spadroons, rapiers and small swords, many of them no doubt stolen from their previous, presumably _dead_ owners.

 

“Lay down your weapons, men,” Thomas ordered, his voice strained but even.

 

One by one, his crew set their weapons at their feet as the crowd of pirates leered at them, visibly pleased by the quick surrender.

 

“On your knees, hands behind your backs,” barked the same dark-skinned man, and everyone, including Thomas, dropped to their knees. Their hands were bound at the wrists as the pirates began to collect their weapons into large burlap sacks.

 

He watched the shadows across the deck grow longer as the sun reached its zenith, and he tried to do a quick count in his head, coming to the conclusion that there were about fifty pirates aboard his ship, walking around the deck like they owned the place, some of them already heading down to the hold in the bowels of the ship. They weren’t carrying anything invaluable, for  his first assignment had been only a simple patrol in the Lesser Antilles, and their hold didn’t contain much more than the provisions they had set sail with from Kingston.

 

Thomas turned to look at the ship that had attacked them and he thought the brig looked vaguely familiar. He suspected it had once belonged to the Royal Navy, but its crew had modified the ship’s appearance so heavily that only parts of its original design remained intact. There was a large ram attached to the bow and Thomas took in the two dark red stripes painted across the otherwise black wood of the hull. Unlike most brigs, this one had three square-rigged masts, the sails as red as freshly spilled blood. The unusual design made Thomas think of the HMS Fury, one of the fastest ships ever built, and as such it had been the pride of the Royal Navy. Thomas had watched her set sail from London as a young lad of fourteen, but the famous brig had gone missing years ago and presumed to lie in Davy Jones’ Locker.

 

He supposed the resemblance could be nothing but a coincidence, but his suspicions grew as he thought of the battle and how quickly they had been defeated, for the red-sailed ship had appeared out of nowhere, so swift on the waves that their cannons had not come even close to firing at her hull as she had maneuvered around them. All it took was a few precise shots from her cannons and Thomas and his crew were forced to watch as their main mast came crashing down. There had been no casualties (so far), but their frigate had definitely seen better days. After they had lost the rudder and control of the ship, there had been a cloud of red smoke and a moment later, the ship was boarded by dozens of unwashed barbarians.

 

It was, without a doubt, one of the most humiliating moments of Thomas’s life.

 

Seething inwardly, Thomas continued to observe the pirates. It was impossible to make sense of rank among them, for they wore no uniform or epaulettes on their shoulders. Thomas couldn’t even tell who was in charge of the ragtag band of low-lives and it irked him that he had not been given the courtesy of knowing who was behind this humiliating ordeal. The men continued to carry their loot into their ship: sail cloth, tobacco, barrels of grog, food and tools. None of them seemed to pay any attention to Thomas and his crew, save for the small Spaniard keeping watch and making sure no one got it into their head to try and do something heroic. From the looks of it, the chances of one of his men getting bold were very slim.

 

“Alright, you navy dandies, I want the surgeon of this ship to stand up at once,” a short and burly pirate with bushy muttonchops announced.

 

Heavy silence fell upon the deck, but one by one, the crew’s eyes turned to Mr. Dabney, who lowered his own gaze to his feet, trying to make himself invisible.

 

The old pirate fired his flintlock pistol in the air as a warning. “Do I have to ask again?”

 

Mr. Dabney hurried to his feet, shaking his head. “You do not, for I am the surgeon aboard this vessel.”

 

“Right, you come with us, lad,” the pirate ordered, grabbing hold of Mr. Dabney’s lapels to drag him away.

 

“Wait!” Thomas called, panic welling up in his throat as he watched his officer being taken away against his will. “You’re taking my surgeon as hostage? What-what do you intend to do to him?”

 

“No harm will come to him,” said someone further away, and when Thomas looked around, his eyes landed on a young man, leaning against the broken mast.

 

“Provided that he does as he’s told,” the old pirate added with a boisterous laugh, flashing his tobacco stained teeth at Mr. Dabney as they disappeared aboard the red-sailed ship.

 

Thomas could guess their surgeon had been the main reason the pirates had risked attacking a Navy frigate, for medical professionals were held in high regard aboard every vessel. The moment Mr. Dabney had disappeared from his sight Thomas turned his eyes back to the youth who chewed on a slice of mango while the men around him continued to carry their ill-gained loot to their ship.

 

“You there,” Thomas called out to him. “Boy! I’m talking to you.”

 

The youth glanced up from his mango, his thick brows arched up in mock confusion.

 

“Yes, _you_. Come over here and tell me who is in charge of your thieving lot,” Thomas ordered. “I have the right to know who is committing these heinous crimes against his Majesty’s Navy. The name of your captain, quickly now.” The lad tossed his half eaten mango over the railing, and as he sauntered over with his hands shoved into the broad red sash wrapped around his hips, Thomas saw the whelp had the gall to sneer at him. “And what, pray tell, is so amusing?” he demanded, fixing the youth with a level stare. “I will not have some cabin boy make fun of-“

 

Thomas let out a pained grunt when the Spaniard delivered a quick kick to his stomach.

 

“Navy scum! Mind how you speak to the captain of the Crimson Wind!”

 

_The Crimson Wind?_

 

A loud murmur rose from his crew, for there was not a single man in the Navy who hadn’t heard of the infamous Crimson Wind. The phantom of the seven seas some called her, for the ship had been the scourge of the Royal Navy for almost a decade, intercepting merchant vessels and Navy frigates and robbing them dry. They did not appear to kill anyone they captured, for there were dozens of merchants and navy men around to tell tales of a red sailed ship that seemed to appear out of nowhere to gun down their prey in a matter of mere minutes.

 

Thomas stared at the youth before him, his mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief. _This_ was the fearsome pirate captain whose reputation caused Thomas’s superiors to go red-faced with anger whenever someone spoke the name Crimson Wind in their presence? His eyes raked over the boy’s tall frame, taking in the golden skin and the carefree grin on his face. The neckline on his loose-fitting shirt was split so deep that it was downright indecent, and Thomas averted his eyes from the sight of his naked chest. He was taller than most of his crew, his body lean and well nourished, but by the looks of his smooth face, he was no older than sixteen or seventeen summers. How the devil was he in charge of an entire ship and a crew of fifty men?

 

“ _You’re_ the captain of the Crimson Wind?” Thomas sputtered. His face burned with humiliation as he realized he was at the mercy of a youngster who wasn’t even old enough to shave. “You’re nothing but a whelp!”

 

Another kick to his side made Thomas let out a wheezy cough, but the lad moved to put himself between the violent Spaniard and Thomas’s sore midsection.

 

“That’s enough, Bosco,” he said, and Thomas was surprised to see the jovial grin on his lips had vanished. The Spaniard gave a half-hearted nod and walked away, leaving Thomas alone with the young captain.

 

The lad crouched down in front of Thomas, the smile creeping back into his blue eyes as they roamed over Thomas’s humbled form. He reached out to yank on the tassels on the epaulette on Thomas’s right shoulder and flicked his blunt nail against the gold button on his uniform. It was not becoming of a naval officer to give in to base emotions such as anger, but there was something absolutely infuriating about the way the boy looked at him, his smile smug and somehow knowing.

 

“What’s your name?” the boy drawled.

 

Thomas raised his chin and announced his name and rank with more pride than he was currently capable of feeling. “Junior Post Captain Hiddleston of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Prudence.”

 

“That’s a lot of fancy words,” the boy remarked, his fingers now tugging on the pristinely tied white cravat around Thomas’s neck.

 

Thomas gave him a look full of pure contempt, leaning away from the whelp’s curious fingers.

 

“I’m sure a miscreant such as yourself knows nothing of rank, but it means I am the-“

 

“Oh, I know what it means,” the boy said cheerily. “I’m a navy man myself. Well, I used to be.”

 

“What?” Thomas cried out. “You? In the King’s Navy? That makes you a deserter!” Bright red spots rose to his cheeks, for it was obvious the little hoodlum did not feel any remorse for his shameful crime. “What is your name?” Thomas demanded.

 

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know,” the boy snickered. He leaned a bit closer to tap on the tip of Thomas’s long nose with a calloused finger. The gesture was so rude and unexpected that Thomas didn’t even know how to react, gaping like a fish. “You’re quite pretty when you blush, Mr. Hiddleston,” the boy said, the smile on his lips almost wolfish.

 

Thomas felt his face heat up all the way to the roots of his finely coiffed hair. He glanced at his second lieutenant Mr. Davis who had averted his eyes, and it was clear he had heard what the whelp had said to Thomas.

 

“Tell me your name,” Thomas demanded once more, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

 

“Perhaps next time,” came the boy’s sunny reply, and Thomas watched as he stood up and motioned for his men to prepare to return to their own ship. He overhead him converse with a small Asian man, telling him to make sure they left enough tools and provisions for Thomas and his crew to repair their ship and make their way back to the nearest port.

 

“Why do you care if we live or die?” Thomas asked bitterly.

 

The boy gave a shrug, strutting back to Thomas. “Perhaps you’re just too pretty to kill,” he said, and Thomas was horrified to see the whelp waggled his brows at him.

 

He fumed, his lips curling into a snarl. “I’ll have you know that by sparing my life you seal your own doom, _pirate_ , for I will not stop hunting you until you are captured and hanged for your crimes. Mark my words, this will not be the last you see of me.”

 

“Oh, I hope not,” the lad chuckled, and Thomas let out an indignant yelp when his cocked hat was snatched right from his head.

 

The boy set it on his own mop of wheat-colored hair and reached into one of the sacks where the pirates had stored all the confiscated weapons. He pulled out a small dagger, sticking it in the splintered remains of the mast, low enough for Thomas or one of his men to reach and cut their bindings.

 

“Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure to plunder your fine vessel,” he announced, his voice ridiculously bombastic. He raised his stolen hat in mock salute, giving Thomas a small wink. “Keep a weather eye on the horizon, Mr. Hiddleston.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nassau had always been one of Chris’s favorite ports to drop anchor in, for the place was positively vile with its many seedy taverns and lawless atmosphere. Whenever Chris and his crew felt the need to lie low for a while, they set sail to Nassau, for old George of England had almost no influence in their small haven in the Bahamas. It was also one of the best places to strike clandestine deals with the many crooked merchants and proprietors that had set up shop in the port and the ever-expanding shanty town.

 

Their hold was loaded with fresh loot and the men were all in high spirits from the knowledge that they would get to spend the next few days on strong drinks and salty women. Chris’s own mood had risen even further as he had spied a familiar-looking Navy frigate moored in a small, secluded cove as they had passed one of the nearby islands on their way to port. It had been far too long since his last run-in with Mr. Hiddleston and Chris was eager to continue their little game of cat-and-mouse, for the longer it went on, the better it seemed to get.

 

He had led his favorite naval officer on a merry chase all over the West Indies for nearly two years now, and he had no intention of getting caught. There _had_ been a few close calls when Hiddleston had somehow caught wind of their plans, the element of surprise foiled, and Chris and his crew had been forced ashore from time to time to fix the minor damages done to their ship. But the angrier Hiddleston got, the more mistakes he made, and as of late, the man had been _very angry_ indeed. Chris knew Hiddleston’s superiors couldn’t be too happy about the fact that Chris had boarded his vessel four times in the past year alone. Chris was almost starting to feel a little bad for him, and the last time he’d boarded Hiddleston’s ship he hadn’t even had the heart to take more than half of his cargo, for the poor man had appeared to be on the verge of giving himself an aneurysm.

 

The chase had turned more personal than professional, and Chris knew he had managed to get under the snobbish officer’s skin. But how could he help himself when the man was such easy and delicious pray with his uppity, stiff manners and ridiculously poor sailing skills. If ever there was someone who was completely in the wrong line of work, it was Hiddleston. Chris didn’t know much about him on a personal level, only that he hailed from London and looked very dashing in a uniform. He suspected Hiddleston must have been the son of someone important, most likely a high ranking naval officer, which might explain why someone as incompetent as him was put in a position of such power and responsibility. The man was definitely no simpleton, having no doubt received all the high education Chris never did, but there was more to captaining a ship than what one learned from books. He could tell Hiddleston was starting to lose himself in the chase, and there were times when Chris worried their little game was becoming almost too unfair. The fact that Hiddleston had risked coming to Nassau could only mean he was desperate for results.

 

Chris took his quartermaster Mr. Jenkins and a host of sailors with him to shore, leaving most of the crew to take care of restocking their supplies and selling as much of the loot as possible to their usual connections. Nassau was not as big as Kingston or Havana and most of the buildings were nothing more than shacks made out of brittle wood, but its close proximity to the nearby trade routes made it an ideal spot for any man living outside of the King’s stifling laws. They passed through the many bordellos that lined the wharf, the red glow of the lanterns that hung by the porches inviting, and his entourage began to grow smaller as his men were lured away by ample bosoms and painted lips.

 

By the time they reached the Capsized Wench it was just Chris and Mr. Jenkins. The Wench had its own rustic charm with its peeling walls and a clear view of the starry night sky where a large piece of roof was missing. It was not one of the most ill-reputed taverns in the port, but the place was packed full of rowdy sailors deep in their cups. It was the perfect place for a navy man to go incognito without rousing too many suspicions, for Nassau was among the ports where one wanted to keep a low profile, and even Chris was keen to avoid attracting any unwanted attention from the wrong kind of crowd. He was a head taller than most of the patrons, but he did his best to blend in, walking around the dimly lit room and surveying the scene as Jenkins got them drinks from the nearest wench. He knew exactly what to look for, and it did not take long before his eyes landed on Hiddleston, for he too was a head taller than everyone around him.

 

Chris was relieved to see the man had been wise enough not to don his fancy navy uniform, wearing instead a dark green overcoat and a ridiculously large felt hat that drooped around his face like a sad lily pad. Hiddleston was a man of honor, and Chris could only assume he did not wish to risk the lives of his crew in what could very well turn out to be a wild goose-chase, and so he had opted to come ashore alone. Chris was a little shocked to see that the man was also well on his way to becoming inebriated, and there was a sting of worry in the back of his mind as he thought of what might happen if the crowd around them found out there was a lone naval officer among them.

 

“Here you go, lad,” Jenkins said, handing Chris a tankard of grog. Chris gave a distracted hum, his eyes still fixed on Hiddleston. “Find something interesting?” Jenkins inquired, following Chris’s gaze across the room to the table where Hiddleston was nursing his drink. “Kraken’s suckers! Is that-“

 

Chris gave a small kick to Jenkins’s shin and the man seemed to grasp the situation, eyeing the company they were in. “What in blazes is that crazy sod doing here?” he muttered, taking a deep pull of grog from his tankard. “A navy man in a pirate nest…”

 

“Shall we find out?” Chris grinned.

 

They approached Hiddleston quietly, trying not to draw any unwanted attention their way. Jenkins had pulled out his pistol, making sure it was not loaded, and he circled around to stand behind Hiddleston’s back as Chris planted himself in the empty seat across the table.

 

Hiddleston looked up from his drink, his brow knotting in an affronted scowl. “I desire no company.” It took him a moment to focus his gaze, and Chris waited patiently as realization slowly dawned on Hiddleston.

 

“ _You_!”

 

He bounced up from his seat, the remaining swill in his tankard spilling all over the table. Chris glanced around, but the noise hadn’t been enough to turn any heads. He flicked his eyes to Mr. Jenkins, and Hiddleston’s breath caught in his throat when Jenkins pressed the barrel of his flintlock against his back. He shot Jenkins a sour look over his shoulder.

 

“I usually do my drinking alone and preferably, _without_ a pistol aimed at my back.”

 

“Come now, Mr. Hiddleston,” Chris snickered, inviting the man to sit down. “Surely you would make an exception for _me_?”

 

Hiddleston snarled at him, visibly livid, but an encouraging nudge from Mr. Jenkins’s pistol made him slump down into his seat.

 

“Sorry about your drink,” Chris said, taking a pull from his own tankard of grog, “though it looks like you’ve already had quite a few, my friend.”

 

“I assure you, I can hold my liquor just fine,” came Hiddleston’s clipped response, and to prove a point, he reached over to yank the tankard from Chris’s hands and drank deeply, draining the contents in one go. “And I am _not_ your friend,” he added, wiping at his wet lips, his eyes hateful as he glared at Chris.

 

Chris gave Jenkins a nod and the man did a quick job of ridding Hiddleston of his sword and pistol. He gave them to Chris who fastened the weapons into the extra holsters on his leather belt.

 

“You’ll get your effects back later,” Chris promised.

 

Hiddleston let out a huff of exasperated laughter. “You’ll forgive me if I have some difficulty trusting the sincerity of your word, _pirate_.”

 

He spat out the word as if it were bile on his tongue, and Chris enjoyed the look of pure disdain that twisted his sharp features. Once Hiddleston had been disarmed, Mr. Jenkins made a beeline to a pair of buxom wenches, leaving Chris alone with his pretty officer. Hiddleston continued to glower at Chris from underneath the rim of his ridiculous hat, and had it not been for the loud pipe music, the heavy silence between them would have been quite awkward.

 

“I must say, that hat does you no favors,” Chris observed, biting his lip to keep his composure.

 

“If this hat does not suit, perchance it would not tempt some sticky fingered hat thief to steal it.”

 

Chris gave a solemn nod, lifting his tankard to his lips to hide his chuckle. “So, it’s not every day you see a high-ranking naval officer set foot in the Pirate Republic,” he said conversationally. “I don’t suppose you’re here for someone special?” Hiddleston let out another indignant snort, and Chris’s smile grew wider as he watched his long-fingered hands ball into fists. “Anyone I know?” he sneered.

 

“You… you _brat_ ,” Hiddleston spat, his voice dripping with bitter venom. “Do you have any idea of the humiliation you’ve put me through over the last two years? How much money you’ve cost to the Navy and the Crown? How- how utterly _demeaning_ it is to stand in a room full of officers while Admiral Crawford shames me and my forefathers for once again losing my entire cargo to you?”

 

“Hey, the last time I boarded your ship I only took half of your cargo,” Chris pointed out, barely able to keep from cracking up as Hiddleston’s eyes bulged in their sockets. “But I do apologize,” he said with mock remorse. Leaning over the wine-stained table, he laid his hand on Hiddleston’s shoulder, giving it a companionable squeeze. “Come, you must join me in my cabin for a drink. It’s the least I can do.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Hiddleston’s nostrils flared at Chris’s suggestion. He shot a withering glare at the hand on his shoulder, blinking nervously. “I-I… _what_? You cannot possibly be inviting me aboard your ship?”

 

“Why not?” Chris inquired, giving Hiddleston an appraising look. “What are you going to do? Arrest me? Drag me to the gallows?”

 

“That is exactly what I intend to do, you little pest! I have been waiting for you in this pit of scum and villainy for more than a fortnight and I’ll have you know that I have two hundred men at my disposal, waiting for my signal,” Hiddleston hissed, sounding almost manic before he was able to regain his composure.

 

Chris rubbed his chin in mock consideration, glancing around the smoky tavern. “In that case, you probably should have picked another port to bring me to justice, mate, for I doubt the sight of two hundred Navy men will be received too kindly in Nassau.”

 

Hiddleston gaped at him, appearing for a moment like a lost child, his expression so endearingly befuddled that Chris felt a little bad for teasing him.

 

“So, how about that drink?”

 

Hiddleston slumped against the back of his chair as if someone had let the air out of him. He pinched the bridge of his sunburnt nose and gave a curt nod. “Fine. But it had better be a bloody big drink after all the humiliation you’ve rained upon me and my crew.”

 

The walk back to the ship was made in a heavy silence and Chris caught the way Hiddleston’s shoulders stiffened as they climbed onto the deck and some of the men carrying boxes of fruit and other supplies to the hold turned to look at him. When his crew realized Chris was taking Hiddleston into his cabin there were some lewd grins and whooping, and Hiddleston almost dug his heels in and spun around, but Chris ushered him in through the door before he had a chance to escape.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It turned out Hiddleston’s claims about being able to hold his liquor weren’t even remotely true. Chris watched with open amusement as the man lounged in one of the plush-cushioned chairs in his quarters. His poise was relaxed and his auburn hair curled on his shoulders in becomingly unruly waves where it had escaped the loose plait at his nape. Chris quite liked the sight of his officer so disheveled, and he wondered if there might be other, more pleasurable ways to achieve such a look.

 

Hiddleston took a deep draught from his silver goblet. “Tell me, what became of Mr. Dabney?” he asked, his voice slurred and thick from drink. “Is he alive?”

 

“Alive and well, and at the moment, most likely in the arms of one of the fine ladies of the Clam and the Pearl,” Chris replied, pleased by the adequately horrified look his words brought to Hiddleston’s face.

 

“You lie! He is an officer of the Royal Navy!” Hiddleston sputtered, scrambling up in his chair to shoot Chris an accusing glare across the room.

 

“He was, two years ago. Now he’s part of my crew and from the looks of it, quite happy, too,” Chris countered.

 

“Happy? As a pirate?” Hiddleston cried out. “How could anyone trade a career in the navy to a life of piracy and be happy about it?”

 

“How indeed?” Chris questioned, his easy charm gone for the moment as he fixed Hiddleston with a hard look. “How could anyone miss the ridiculously low pay, the inequality, the hazing and the floggings and being hung from the ratlines for days in pouring rain and boiling sun for the most minor offences?”

 

Chris sounded bitter even to his own ears, but very few men who had served in the Navy would deny that the conditions were often abysmal. Cramped in small quarters for weeks with hundreds of men, surrounded by disease and poor food and getting paid only scraps was not a life many would envy. Being a privateer or an outright pirate, or like Chris and his crew, something in between, was no easy life either, but it offered more opportunities than the strict and often cruel world of the navy.

 

“Is that why you deserted?” Hiddleston asked. His eyes were serious, disapproving even, but surprisingly, there was no accusation in his voice.

 

Chris frowned at the reflection staring back at him from the dark surface of the wine in his goblet.  “It’s certainly not why I stayed,” he said, some of the bile that had risen up with the old memories still lingering on his tongue.

 

The conversation dwindled after that, and they spent the next few minutes in silence, both of them focusing on the drink in their hands. Cheery singing echoed from the berth below and the ship creaked quietly as it swayed in the shallow waters of the harbor.

 

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Hiddleston said suddenly.

 

Chris grinned, arching his brows. “You want to know my name? I didn’t know you cared, Mr. Hiddleston.”

 

“If I care, it’s because I wish to know who I’m arresting,” Hiddleston huffed.

 

“You first,” Chris smirked.

 

“You already know my name.”

 

“Yes, but I don’t want to keep calling you _Mr. Hiddleston_ , it’s too formal,” Chris complained, wrinkling his freckled nose.

 

“Too formal? For what? You do realize that I despise you, don’t you?” Hiddleston laughed.  He emptied the remaining wine in his goblet and set it on the table. “Fine… My name is Thomas. Thomas William Hiddleston, son of Charles Hiddleston, vice admiral of the White Squadron until his recent retirement. “

 

“Thomas,” Chris echoed, sampling the word on his tongue. “Still too formal. I think I shall call you Tom.”

 

“You most certainly will not!” Tom cried out, visibly appalled. His wine-stained lips pursed into a pout when Chris shot him a pleading look from across the room. “Well, perhaps, provided that you finally tell me your name.”

 

“I’m Chris.”

 

“Chris?” Tom repeated, his brow knotting in confusion. “Just Chris? Is that short for something?”

 

“Christopher Hemsworth.”

 

“But you call yourself Chris? That’s it?” Tom howled. “You’re Chris the Pirate? No clever moniker that speaks of your feats in pillaging and strikes fear to the hearts of your enemies?”

 

Chris felt his cheeks grow warm with mounting embarrassment as Tom continued to laugh at him. What the hell was wrong with his name? He’d known a yorkie called Chris as a lad and he’d been the best dog in the world, always greeting him with a wet lick on the nose. “I’m sorry, have I disappointed you?” Chris asked, somewhat indignantly.

 

“I must admit I did expect the captain of the infamous Crimson Wind to have a somewhat more _piratey_ name,” Tom grinned, and damn him for looking so pretty while doing so.

 

“Well, I did once think of calling myself “Captain Hammerhead”, Chris offered.

 

Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. “Someone hammered you in the head?”

 

“No!” Chris exclaimed, hating how young his voice sounded in his ears, and he was suddenly aware of being several years Tom’s junior. “ _I_ would do the hammering. Obviously.”

 

Tom continued to laugh and Chris got up to pour himself a stiffer drink, tossing it back and refilling his goblet twice more before returning to his chair. The loud peals of laughter eventually turned to hiccups and Tom appeared to forget why he’d been laughing. He slid lower in his seat, his long legs spread akimbo.

 

Chris felt a jolt of arousal in his loins as his eyes traveled up and down Tom’s lean body. He’d be lying if he claimed the invitation to his cabin hadn’t come with an ulterior motive, and while Chris was not averse to a drunken tumble in the sheets, he did prefer his bedmates to be sober enough to participate. Seeing the way Tom’s eyes were beginning to droop, Chris knew he had to make his move soon. 

 

“I still can’t believe…” Tom muttered, “I still can’t believe a seventeen year old whelp is the captain of the Crimson Wind.”

 

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” Chris pointed out, feeling a little offended by the knowledge that Tom still saw him as a kid.

 

“Mmmm, I suppose you have grown,” Tom hummed, giving a vague nod as his eyes slowly opened and his gaze fixed on Chris’s biceps. “Your ego is definitely more bloated.”

 

“That’s not the only thing about me that’s bloated,” Chris said, his smile decidedly lewd.

 

“I assure you, I have no idea what you might be referring to, Mr. Hemsworth. Wait. _Are you flexing your muscles at me right now_?” Tom sputtered, torn between amusement and outrage.

 

“Perhaps,” Chris smirked. He set his goblet down and got up to his feet, pretending to stretch his arms as he slowly made his way across the cabin to where Tom was threatening to slide out of his chair.

 

“I suppose it is too much to expect a man in your line of work to have any sense of propriety and decorum?” Tom huffed, but Chris could tell there was no real heat in his voice.

 

“You’ve always had such a way with words, Mr. Hiddleston,” Chris murmured as he came to stand between Tom’s parted legs. He placed his hands on the gold plated arm rests and leaned down, right into Tom’s personal space.

 

“What do you think you are doing?!” Tom gasped, and his blue eyes held a hint of panic as he peered up at Chris suspiciously.

 

Chris brushed his thumb against Tom's high cheekbone. “You appear a bit flushed, mate,” he teased, tugging on Tom’s blue neckerchief. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if you lost some of your slops?” He pulled at the scarf until it came loose and made sure Tom’s eyes were on him as he pressed the cloth against his face and inhaled deeply. It was obvious Tom had been slumming for a while, and he was far from his usual pristine appearance, but Chris could still smell sweet traces of perfumed oil in his neckerchief. “Better now?” he drawled, slipping the cloth safely into the folds of his own sash.

 

Tom shook his head, his chest rising with his rapid breaths as Chris brought his face even closer, now only inches apart from Tom’s parted lips.

 

“I… I should go,” Tom gasped, the smell of alcohol in his breath cloying. His eyes darted from side to side, but his gaze was eventually drawn back to Chris’s grinning lips. “I hate you,” he whispered in a small voice, and Chris watched as he licked his wine-red lips.

 

“I know you do.”

 

It took only a few heartbeats until Tom was surging up to press his mouth against Chris’s. His long, finely boned fingers reached for Chris’s shoulders, his hands clutching at his shirt, seeking purchase. The kiss was hesitant, Tom’s lips barely opening, and it was almost like Chris was being kissed by someone who had only ever read about it in books. Chris was ready to blame the complete lack of technique on alcohol, but being a proper English gentleman, no doubt destined for an arranged marriage to some rich lord’s daughter, it was more than likely that Tom had very little experience in such sinful acts.

 

“Never been kissed, have you?” Chris murmured against Tom’s lips. _It’s alright. I can teach you_. Tom let out a quiet mewl as Chris cupped his jaw and coaxed his mouth open, licking past his reddened lips until he could taste the heady wine that lingered on his tongue.  There was a warm puff of air against his mouth and Chris felt Tom’s long lashes fan against his cheeks. A moment later, Tom began to respond, his tongue shyly brushing against Chris’s before slipping past his lips.

 

He used his hand on Tom’s neck to guide the pace, pulling back every once in a while to allow Tom to catch his breath, pecking his lips playfully and drinking in the sight of Tom’s flushed face. The hold on Chris’s shoulders loosened and Tom’s questing hands were soon slipping inside the low neckline of his shirt and vest, the pads of his fingers smooth against his clavicles. Chris took it as assent and he crowded against Tom’s lean chest, the chair threatening to dip as their mouths came together in another kiss.

 

Unlike the men and women Chris had bedded in the past, Tom was a challenge, so stiff and proper, almost repressed in the cage of his morals and good manners. The thought of getting to be the one to help him loosen up was tempting.  Chris loved to rile Tom up, and it did not often take more than a heated look or a well-timed quip loaded with innuendo to stain his cheeks a lovely shade of red. Chris groaned low in his throat as he wondered whether or not his pretty officer was a virgin. He lowered his left hand to Tom’s leg, feeling the way the lean muscles jumped against his palm as he ran his fingers along his inner thigh, kneading at the supple flesh.

 

“Chris…” Tom’s voice sounded breathless and somehow distant, but he allowed Chris to slip his fingers under the bend of his knee, lifting his leg up on the armrest.

 

“There you go,” Chris grunted. He continued to run his hand along Tom’s thigh, working his way slowly toward his narrow hips, feeling the jut of bone through the coarse material of Tom’s breeches.

 

Most of the crew was spending their hard earned coin ashore tonight, but there were still men aboard the ship, and one of them chose to drop and break their bottle of rum right outside of the cabin door as Chris was about to reach between Tom’s parted thighs.

 

Tom recoiled, the sound enough to startle him back to his senses. His jerked his head back and Chris felt the caressing hands on his chest turn into painful claws as they dug into his skin.

 

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Tom panted, sounding far more sober than five minutes ago. “Are you _mad_?”

 

“What?” Chris smirked innocently. “ _You’re_ the one who kissed _me_ ,” he pointed out, but he let himself be pushed away as Tom continued to struggle up to his feet.

 

“I did no such thing,” Tom huffed, but even he seemed to know his claim had not truth to it. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat and stood up, swaying against the table as he fought to regain his balance. “I, uh, I must return to my men.” Tom let out a loud hiccup and took a few teetering steps in the general direction of the door.

 

“Or you could spend the night?” Chris suggested, wagging his brows.

 

“I most certainly could not,” Tom announced, but Chris didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to the large mahogany bed on the other side of the cabin.

 

“In that case, allow me to express my gratitude for having the pleasure of your company this evening, Mr. Hiddleston,” Chris said, his tone so polite Tom had to know he was putting on a show.

 

Tom merely flicked his hand in a dismissive little wave, rolling his eyes, but he appeared visibly shocked when Chris returned his effects from the trunk where he had stored them upon their arrival.

 

“As you can see, I’m a man of my word,” Chris announced, the lemon-sucking expression on Tom’s face beyond satisfying. “Oh, I almost forgot!” Chris dashed across the cabin to rummage through a large trunk full of slops and fabrics, pulling out a familiar-looking cocked hat. He placed it on Tom’s head and arranged his unruly locks behind his ears.

 

Tom slapped Chris’s hands away and turned the hat around until the cockade on the side no longer faced the back of his head. “So it would seem,” he said through gritted teeth.

 

Chris peered out of the cabin door to make sure the coast was clear before escorting Tom to the gangway at the side of the ship. “I really think you should get out of Nassau as soon as you can.”

 

“I bet you do,” Tom pouted, clearly disappointed that his plan to capture Chris had been foiled once more.

 

Chris gave him a playful wink. “I’ll let you catch me some other time,” he said, leaning a little closer in the vain hope that he might receive a goodnight kiss.

 

Tom gave his chest a light shove, glaring at Chris from under his meticulously shaped brows. “You’re a menace…”

 

 “And you hate me,” Chris nodded cheerfully.

 

“That I do, Mr. Hemsworth,” Tom concurred, stumbling down the gangway, but Chris could have sworn there was considerably less acid in his voice than before.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The winds had been in their favor from the moment they set sail from Nassau two days ago, and Chris estimated that they would reach their next destination in record time. He had not yet decided where they were headed and he was poring over his maps in his cabin, swirling his dividers in his fingers as he consider their options. Loose tongues in Nassau had informed him of a few possibly lucrative opportunities, one of them a Dutch merchant vessel with a cargo full of whale oil, tobacco and medicine, which always sold for a high price.

 

Chris began to calculate the distance to the vessel’s alleged route, but he kept stealing glances of the small golden button on his right where it rolled around in a glass jar. He picked it up and brushed his finger against the tiny anchor etched into the surface, his cheeks dimpling. He’d plucked the button from the sleeve of Tom’s uniform during the first year of their merry little chase, and though it held no real value, it was one of his favorite treasures. Chris had been relieved to see Tom’s frigate had no longer been in the cove when they’d left Nassau, and he hoped Tom was well on his way to safer waters. The mere sight of a lone Navy ship in these parts could result in a massacre.

 

They were two bells into the middle watch and most of the crew slumbered belowdeck, the quiet steps of the watchmen prowling the deck the only sound on the ship. Chris dropped the dividers on the table and got up to remove his boots as he got ready to settle into his bunk for a few hours of sleep, his thoughts still lingering on Tom as he lay down on the silks he’d procured from a Chinese merchant junk when he’d first been made captain.

 

He traced his full bottom lip and thought of the kiss he’d shared with Tom a few nights ago. He had been no older than nine when he’d joined the King’s Navy, and he had spent enough time aboard different vessels to know that sometimes men sought each other’s company in the cramped quarters, mostly out of necessity, but in some rare cases there was more than physical need involved. The fact that it happened did not mean the Admiralty approved of it, and punishments for getting caught in a lip-lock with a crewmate were severe. Though Chris’s own appetite for sex had always included both men and women, he’d been very careful not to put himself at the receiving end of the navy cat o’ nine tails if he could avoid it.

 

It wasn’t until he’d joined the crew of the Crimson Wind at the age of fourteen that Chris slowly began to broaden his views on sex. Most of the crew was made up of salty old sea dogs and Chris had no interest in their company, but the captain of the ship at the time had been in matelotage* with his master gunner, and Chris had learned of the many ways life aboard a pirate ship differed from life in the Navy. He eyed the small gold ring on his left pointer finger, his eyes slipping closed as his mind continued to shift through memories of the close bond between his old captain and his mate, but his last thoughts before sleep finally caught up with him were of Tom.

 

_* matelotage was a lifelong partnership between two male pirates. Matelots were each other’s named inheritors and shared their property, food, loot, beds and in some cases women, and it’s believed that many such bonds were homosexual in nature._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was sometime between middle and morning watch when the door to Chris’s cabin flung open and young Lindy stumbled inside just as the bell outside began to ring, calling all men topside.

 

“Captain,” Lindy cried from the door, “there are signs of battle in the horizon on the larboard side!”

 

Chris was out of his bunk and up on the fore-deck before most of the crew had even begun to make their way up from the berth. The sky was still grey blue with lingering darkness, but Chris could see a light orange glow in the mass of clouds hanging low in the horizon.

 

“Do you hear that, cap’n?” Mr. Jenkins whispered.

 

Chris nodded, for he too heard the distant boom of cannons carrying over the waves. “Cannonfire.”

 

“Who’s fighting?” one of the young swabbies wondered. “Do ya reckon it’s the Navy frigate we saw in the cove when we came to Nassau?”

 

Chris’s stomach tightened with dread and he snatched the spyglass Mr. Jenkins was holding in his hands to peer over the horizon, but the only thing he could make out were flashes of white light, followed by the ominous boom of cannons.

 

“Orders, captain?” Mr. Jenkins asked, and the old man seemed to catch the dismay in Chris’s eyes, for he gave Chris a sharp look. “We don’t wanna be getting caught in a battle we didn’t start… not for him,” came his quartermaster’s thinly veiled warning, whispered into Chris’s ear so the men around them did not hear the final three words.

 

“Aye, Mr. Jenkins, we do not,” Chris nodded, his heart still heavy with dread, but as the captain, he had to think of what was best for his own crew.

 

He couldn’t possibly tell his men to head into battle and expect to avoid mutiny when they found out Chris had risked their lives for the Navy. He trusted his men, for many of them had been part of the crew when Captain Lowell first brought Chris aboard his ship. Lowell had been like a father to him, and he and his crew had taught Chris all there was to know about life aboard a pirate ship. The crew had respected Lowell’s final wishes by voting Chris the new captain and he’d earned the men’s respect by leading them to many good fortunes over the last three years. But like any self-respecting pirate crew, they would maroon him the moment he began to make decisions that weren’t in the best interest of his men. And for all he knew, Tom could be miles away, the battle nothing more than a bunch of buccaneers preying on an unfortunate merchant vessel.

 

“However,” Jenkins continued, eyeing the horizon. “There could be something valuable to salvage.”

 

The men’s eyes brightened up at the word “valuable” and Chris gave Jenkins a small, grateful smile for giving him an excuse to investigate. “Right you are, Mr. Jenkins.” He ordered his men to set their course for the scene of battle at half speed, hoping there would indeed be something left to save when they arrived.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The place was like a floating graveyard. Smoke still lingered above the water, but whoever had been victorious had sailed away while the defeated ship lay in the bottom of the sea somewhere below them. There was a lot of debris floating around, pieces of the hull and masts, barrels and blood stained sail cloth. Gulls swarmed around the place, swooping down to poke at the flotsam.

 

Chris ran to the bulwark to peer into the water, and he felt the bottom of his stomach drop when his eyes landed on several dead men in navy blue uniforms, the bodies half tangled in sail cloth.

 

“Lower the longboat and prepare to look for survivors,” Chris barked.

 

“Survivors!?” cried out one of the seamen next to him. “You see them blue uniforms, captain? Since when do we rescue Navy?”

 

“Since now, Mr. Morgan,” Chris snapped, and his scowl was enough to silence the man. “Tell Mr. Dabney he’s coming with me,” Chris said to Mr. Jenkins, hurrying down to the main deck to oversee the lowering of the longboat.

 

Wanting to leave enough room for possible survivors, Chris only took the ship’s surgeon and the bo’s’n with him, leaving Mr. Jenkins in charge of the ship and the crew while he was away. They rowed at a slow pace, careful to check every body they saw floating in the water. The destruction from a round shot was often devastating and most of the men were severely bloodied and missing more than one limb.

 

“I suspect they’ve been dead for at least an hour,” came Mr. Dabney’s grim assessment, and Chris could hear the pain in his voice as he continued to check each body for signs of life.

 

“Do you recognize any of them?”

 

“Aye, captain, unfortunately I do,” Dabney said solemnly, watching as the body of the young man he’d tried to pull closer began to sink into the dark depths below them.

 

Chris did his best to keep his own fear from showing on his face, but his stomach was in knots and he felt the urge to vomit every time he reached out to turn one of the bodies over, praying the face he saw wouldn’t be Tom’s.

 

“Over there, boss, I think that one’s alive.” The bo’s’n was pointing at a man floating on what looked like it was once a table and Mr. Dabney let out a cry of relief when he saw the lad yet lived.

 

“Get him in the boat,” Chris ordered, and the bo’s’n reached out with his massive arms to pull the sailor into safety.

 

The boy coughed and spluttered, his leg bleeding sluggishly, but according to Dabney he would live. Chris was happy they had been able to rescue someone, but he told his men to keep looking, ignoring the way the flame of hope in his heart began to flicker. They pulled another body out of the water, but the man died as soon as they got him into the boat, and they lowered him back into the water and watched as the sea claimed his mangled figure. They had checked every single body in the vicinity of their boat and Dabney asked if they should return to the ship, but Chris shook his head, his mouth twisting into a stubborn frown.

 

“We may yet find someone who lives.”

 

The circling gulls drew his gaze to some flotsam floating further away from their boat, and he used his spyglass to scope the scene, his breath catching in his throat when he thought he saw movement. “I- I think I saw someone lift their arm and wave at us, over there, on that piece of debris,” Chris cried out, peering into the spyglass once more. The man was lying on his back, his face clear of the water, and Chris felt his heart soar as he thought he recognized the golden epaulette on the man’s shoulder.

 

_It’s Tom! It has to be!_

 

The bo’s’n rowed them across the small distance, and Chris leaned over the bow to push aside the jetsam that blocked their way. The moment the man’s face came into view, he dove into the water and swam to where Tom was floating on a piece of decoratively carved mahogany door. He wound his arm around Tom’s waist to keep him from slipping away, careful not to put any weight on his makeshift raft.

 

“Tom,” Chris murmured, “you’re safe now.”

 

Tom’s eyes fluttered open, but there was no sign of recognition in them, and they rolled back as he sank into oblivion. Chris was no doctor, but he could see Tom was gravely injured. His blue coat and the white waistcoat underneath it were stained red with blood and there was a large gash on the right side of his face that ran all the way across his eyebrow to the corner of his eye.

 

“Careful, don’t let him fall,” Chris gasped as the bo’s’n reached down to wrap his arms around Tom’s chest, pulling him into the boat. He grabbed hold of the side of the boat and hauled himself up when he was sure Tom was safely out of the water.

 

Mr. Dabney looked almost as relieved as Chris to see his former captain was still drawing breath. Tom began to retch, coughing out seat water all over himself, but his eyes remained closed and he appeared to be blissfully unconscious. Chris pulled him into his arms and settled his upper body in his own lap as Mr. Dabney gave Tom’s injuries a quick once-over, his eyes darkening with worry.

 

“He needs immediate medical attention, they both do.”

 

They kept their eyes open for more survivors as they rowed back, and the bo’s’n continued to call out to anyone who might hear them, but the sea was quiet, their only answer the screams from the gulls that continued to circle overhead. It took some maneuvering to get Tom and his injured crewmate into the ship, and Chris bit his lip nervously when he heard Tom cry out in pain as the men hauled him to the deck. The wound on his head continued to bleed, rivulets of red spilling down the side of his face and long neck.

 

“What do we do with them, captain?” Mr. Bosco called over the rail as Chris made his way up the rope ladder. “Do we take them to the brig?”

 

Chris almost let out a laugh at the absurdity of his rigger’s suggestion. “They are two gravely injured men, Mr. Bosco. We throw them in the brig and they die,” Chris said, feeling like he was talking to a child. “I believe that would defeat the purpose of rescuing them in the first place.”

 

Bosco gave a nod, and though it was clear he wasn’t happy about having navy men aboard their ship, he was one of Chris’s most loyal men and he would never question a direct order from his captain. Chris pointed at the man they had pulled out of the water first and ordered his men to take him down to the orlop deck which served as their makeshift infirmary whenever the need arose.

 

“What about him? It looks like he’ll bleed all over the deck if we don’t move him,” one of the men said, gaping at Tom’s unconscious body.

 

“Take him to my cabin, and be careful when you lift him. I think he’s been shot.” Chris turned to look at Mr. Dabney, and though he wished he could order the surgeon to make Tom his priority, he told the man to look after whichever patient had the graver injury.

 

Mr. Dabney did not even hesitate as he followed the men into Chris’s cabin as they carried Tom inside. He ordered them to prepare the long dining table for surgery and the men dashed around, removing all the silverware and covering the table with a clean sail cloth. One of the cabin boys appeared behind them with the surgeon’s tool kit and as soon as Mr. Dabney had everything he needed, Chris ordered everyone else out of the cabin.

 

Morning light flooded in through the large lattice windows, but Chris lit the lanterns that hung above the table to make sure Mr. Dabney saw what he was doing. Tom’s face appeared wan and ghostly pale under the lamp light, his lips nearly purple.

 

“Help me remove his uniform,” the surgeon said, his tone making it clear that he was the one in charge now.

 

Chris did as he was told and he began to remove Tom’s coat and vest as Mr. Dabney laid out his tools and prepared for surgery. The many golden buttons hindered the process so much that Chris eventually ripped them open, ignoring the way they went flying about in every direction. He swallowed against the fear rising in his throat when he saw the wound on Tom’s chest, right between his left shoulder and armpit.

 

“He _has_ been shot.”

 

“Aye,” Dabney concurred. “The bullet must still be inside,” he said grimly as he examined Tom’s uniform. “There’s no hole in the back of his coat and vest.” He scratched his chin as his eyes flicked between Tom and the many daunting instruments in his tool kit. “If it’s not too deep, I could try and attempt to remove it.”

 

“What about the wound on his head?” Chris asked, not liking the sight of all the blood that kept seeping through the cloth Dabney had placed over the long gash on Tom’s brow.

 

“Head wounds always bleed a lot. It is not as serious as the bullet in his shoulder.”

 

The next hour was one of the most excruciating experiences of Chris’s life. Life a sea came with a guaranteed element of danger, and he had seen his fair share of injuries, some of them worse than Tom’s, but Chris had never been as scared as he was now when he watched Mr. Dabney poke into Tom’s chest with his forceps in search of the bullet that had buried itself in his flesh. He had been forced to tie Tom’s legs to the table with rope, and he did his best to hold his arms down as the intense pain managed to drag Tom out of his unconsciousness. Tom cried out and trashed on the table, his pained howls growing louder when Mr. Dabney’s forceps slipped deeper into the wound.

 

“Hold him steady!” Dabney barked, and not knowing what else to do, Chris climbed up to sit on Tom’s hips with his legs astride, using his weight to hold him down. He took hold of Tom’s wrists and pressed his hands against his belly, careful not to use too much force, but enough to keep him still as Dabney dug deeper and finally fished out the round bullet. There we go!” the surgeon gasped, the smile on his sweat soaked face victorious. "He is in luck, for it appears the bullet has missed his lung and major arteries."

 

Tom’s eyes were wide open, glistening with fever. “What-? Where…”

 

“Shhh, it’s going to be alright,” Chris murmured, rubbing his thumb gently against Tom’s wrist bones. “You’re going to be just fine.”

 

Dabney handed Chris a small brown bottle of laudanum. “Give him a sip,” he instructed.

 

Chris wrapped his fingers around Tom’s neck to lift his head as he brought the bottle to his pale lips, tipping it just enough to wet his tongue to avoid giving Tom an overdose. The drug was potent even in small doses, and Chris was familiar with its effects, for his mother had gotten herself addicted to the stuff shortly after his father had passed away from whooping cough, leaving her alone with three young boys. Tom swallowed the medicine and let out a stuttering sigh, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as he passed out again.

 

The doctor worked in silence, his brow creased in concentration as he washed the wound with alcohol and Chris helped him dress it with clean bandages, glad their supplies were full after they had intercepted a sloop near Barbados on their way to Nassau. Tom’s lips parted in a quiet murmur as Dabney began to clean his face with a wet rag, trying to get a clear view of the wound on his forehead. The massive amount of blood had made it hard to see whether or not the gash reached Tom’s eye, and Chris chewed on his lower lip nervously as the doctor continued to mop Tom’s face clean.

 

“Will he lose his eye?”

 

“Mmmm,” Dabney hummed, using his finger to gently lift Tom's lid, “the wound is deep enough to require stitches, but his eye appears to be undamaged,” he announced, relief audible in his voice.

 

They spent another hour working on Tom’s face, for Dabney had to be extra careful as he poked his needle through the sensitive skin at the corner of Tom’s eye. He covered the side of his face with fresh bandages and together they carried Tom into Chris’s softly padded bed.

 

“Will he be alright now?” Chris asked. He felt out of breath and his body had begun to shiver as adrenaline continued to course through his veins.

 

“If he survives the fever and the wounds do not get infected, he has a chance.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas felt like his entire existence had narrowed down to a single sensation: unrelenting, excruciating pain. His chest felt like it was on fire and there was such intense pain in his head that it was as if someone had taken his skull and replaced it with hot embers.

 

A wave of panic washed over him when he tried to open his eyes and realized he only had half of his vision.

 

“Shh, don’t try to get up, sir,” came a low murmur somewhere to his left, and Thomas felt a gentle hand settle on top of his head. All he could make out was a dark blurry shape as his vision began to swim. “You have been injured and I’ve been forced to cover your right eye with bandages.”

 

Thomas’s hand shot up and he touched the soft cloth around his face with trembling fingers. “Are you a doctor?” he rasped, his throat sore from disuse.

 

“Lieutenant James Dabney, former surgeon of the HMS Prudence at your service, sir.”

 

“Dabney?” Thomas croaked. The cold grip of fear eased its hold around his heart as he realized he was in the company of an old friend. “What- how?”

 

“Hush, now, sir, you must take it easy,” Dabney murmured. “Here, have some water.”

 

Thomas parted his lips, sticking his tongue out, exhaling a grateful sigh when Dabney used a moist rag to squeeze a few drops of lukewarm water right into Thomas’s parched mouth. His lips were so chapped that Thomas could feel the flesh sting from tiny cuts as he tried to part his mouth wider, the taste of copper heavy on his tongue.

 

All too soon, the rag was taken away, and Thomas gave a protesting grunt. “You can have more later,” Dabney assured, dabbing at Thomas’s forehead with a cool cloth.

 

Thomas peered around with his one eye, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He could tell he was aboard a ship from the way his body rocked gently in the soft bed. Golden lanterns hung from the beams above him, their light dim and soothing as they swayed with the movement of the ship. He thought he heard someone clear their throat quietly further away, and his good eye flicked to the other side of the cabin, shrouded in deep shadows.

 

“Is someone else here with us?”

 

Dabney was silent, but Thomas saw the doctor glance at the shadows over his shoulder. Slowly, his frayed mind began to piece together the details and he realized the sight of his kidnapped officer could only mean one thing.

 

“We’re aboard the Crimson Wind?” White hot pain burst around his bandaged shoulder as Thomas attempted to sit up, his gaze darting around the cabin.

 

“Aye, it was the captain that fished you out from the sea.”

 

Thomas fumed, the thought of owing a life debt to Hemsworth quite unbearable. “Your captain, is he here?” Thomas flung his foot over the side of the bed in an attempt to get up, but Dabney pressed a firm hand to his uninjured shoulder and forced him back to the sweat-soaked sheets.

 

“I thought it would be best if you woke up to a friendly face. And you really must take it easy, sir,” Dabney berated. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

 

Thomas ignored the doctor’s worried words, his gaze fixed on the dark shape he now saw was seated at the desk, the candles and lanterns around the area unlit. “I know you’re there,” he said, voice strained.

 

The figure moved and there was the sound of heavy boots on wood. Dabney shook his head, breathing out a disapproving sigh as his captain materialized from the shadows.

 

“You fool,” Hemsworth hissed, and never before had the boy leveled Thomas with such an intense and accusatory gaze. “Do you truly not know how to pick your battles?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Only a fool would try to take down a man-o’-war with one hundred guns.”

 

“For your information, Mr. Hemsworth, I was trying to _flee_ and save the lives of my men,” Thomas cried out, but his voice turned into a pathetic wail as the pain in his chest and head intensified.

 

“Gentlemen, please, I must insist you calm yourselves at once.”

 

Dabney’s raised voice was enough to silence both of them, and the anger on Hemsworth’s face vanished as he took in the sight of Thomas’s pained expression. He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I’m sorry, I, uh, didn’t know…” he muttered as he realized his anger and accusations had been misplaced.

 

Dabney gave them both a stern, assessing look. “I must retrieve some salve from my medical kit. Can I trust you two to behave yourselves while I’m away?” Hemsworth lowered his face, appearing for a moment like a scolded child. He muttered something under his breath, but it seemed to be enough to convince the good doctor.

 

Dabney’s absence left room for a long and awkward silence, and Thomas watched as Hemsworth first crossed and then uncrossed his arms over his chest before settling them on his hips. There was none of the usual bravado, and it was almost unsettling to see the boy so subdued. He appeared young beyond his years as he peered at Thomas from under his brows, and if Thomas didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost looked like Hemsworth had been worried about him.

 

The air in the cabin was stifling, reeking of illness and fever. “How long have I been here?” Thomas asked.

 

Hemsworth seemed to recover from his unusual bout of awkwardness, and he took a seat at the side of the bed, promptly ignoring the disapproving glare Thomas shot at him for being so bold.

 

“It’s been two weeks since we pulled you out from the sea. Dabney had to remove a bit of lead from your shoulder and you’ve been sleeping away your fever until now.” Thomas’s breath hitched when Hemsworth reached out to settle his hand gently on his clammy brow. “I know this is probably the last place on earth you want to be, but you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like,” Hemsworth said, and Thomas did not quite know what to do with the genuine kindness he heard in the boy’s voice. He was shocked to discover that the anger he’d carried in his heart for two years was beginning to ebb away, replaced with deep weariness.

 

“You’re quite right,” Thomas nodded, but there was a hint of wry humor in his voice. “Your cabin may very well be the last place on God’s green earth I ever wanted to see again, but I thank you for your most generous offer.”

 

“You’ll be happy to know that we also managed to rescue a man called Torsten from the water,” Hemsworth said, his hand now combing through Thomas’s matted hair as if it belonged there. “I think he’s one of your midshipmen.”

 

“W-what?” Thomas’s head pounded as the meaning behind Hemsworth’s words dawned on him. “Is… is my entire crew… Are they all…?”

 

Hemsworth’s hand stilled and he nodded, his young face full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, but there was hardly anything left by the time we arrived. According to Mr. Torsten, the battle commenced just before the morning watch.”

 

“Yes…” Thomas gave a vague nod, barely able to hear Hemsworth’s voice from the sound of his own heartbeats. “It was a ship with sails as black as the night around us.”

 

“Black sails?” Hemsworth’s face darkened. “I reckon it was that rotten William Worley, though most know him as Bloody Bill. He’s the only pirate with black sails and that kind of firepower.”

 

Thomas’s mind was bombarded with chaotic flashes of death and destruction, and he felt his eyes sting as they began to fill with bitter tears. His ship and his entire crew save for one midshipman lay in the bottom of the sea while Thomas still lived.

 

“You should have left me to die with my crew,” Thomas whispered, hot tears now rolling down his cheeks and seeping into the bandages.

 

“What?” Hemsworth shook his head, bewildered. “You can’t possibly mean that…”

 

Thomas turned his face toward the wall, barely able to draw breath as he allowed the feeling of guilt to wash over him. “I wish to be left alone.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

His recovery was a long and painful road, and time seemed to stand still as Thomas was confined to Hemsworth’s quarters, his dark thoughts his only company, save for when he allowed Mr. Dabney to check his wounds and change his bandages. It had been two years since Thomas had seen his former surgeon, and he was shocked to discover Dabney was a changed man. Gone were his pristine coat and gold buttons, and his neatly styled hair now hung in loose curls around his tanned face. But even more shocking than the change in his appearance was the fact that Dabney seemed truly content to be part of Hemsworth’s crew.

 

“It’s not so bad,” Dabney smiled as he helped Thomas swallow down some hot broth. “Our captain is a sharp lad and he has his heart in the right place – for a pirate.”

 

Part of Thomas was convinced the ruffians must have hit Dabney in the head and rearranged his brain, but he knew just how harsh life in the Navy could be, and he could not deny that what Dabney told him about his new life did hold a certain decadent appeal.

 

The young midshipman who had been rescued from the debris was with Dabney one night when the surgeon came to change Thomas’s bandages. Thomas was happy to see the boy was making a speedy recovery, already on his feet and according to Dabney, making himself useful by mending the sails, but the sight of him was also a stark reminded of Thomas’s failure.

 

They had spotted the ship near Rum Cay after setting sail from Nassau, and seeing they were clearly outclassed and outgunned, Thomas had given the order to flee. Speed had been on their side and they had tried to seek refuge in shallow waters, but the ship had not given up the chase, and on the third night, they were caught. They had done their very best to defend their ship, but in the end, their best had only been enough to delay certain doom, for there was naught a frigate could do against a warship with one hundred guns. Thomas tried to forget the sight of his ship sinking into the fathoms as he’d held on to a piece of wood with his dear life, but the memory haunted him in his dreams almost every night.

 

If he ever made it back to civilization, Thomas was sure to face court-martial and certain demotion. He’d already been on his final warning when he set sail to Nassau and it wouldn’t surprise him if he were headed straight for the gallows. Whether he liked it or not, his career in the Navy was over, but to his surprise, Thomas found the thought oddly liberating. He had made such a poor captain and he could finally admit to himself that the only reason he had joined the Navy in the first place was having the misfortune of being the son of a naval officer.

 

The sea was simply not in his blood. Not the way it was in Hemsworth’s. The young captain had tried to visit him in the early weeks of his recovery, but Thomas had always pretended to be asleep, and Hemsworth eventually stopped coming, seeming to understand Thomas’s desire to be left in peace. He figured the boy must have been sleeping belowdeck with the rest of his crew, allowing Thomas the full use of his cabin. Thomas was thankful for the privilege he had been gifted, for he knew Hemsworth could have easily sent him into the cramped crew quarters and he could be doing his mending in a flea-ridden hammock.

 

In all honesty, Hemsworth’s cabin was an improvement even from Thomas’s own quarters aboard the Prudence. The room was like a magpie’s nest with its many clashing pieces of furniture and various trinkets and baubles, fabrics and rolls of parchments that threatened to spill out of the many chests and nooks they had been stored in. Thomas was certain some of the treasures had come from his own frigate, but he was surprised to discover that the realization didn’t bring forth the usual rush of bitter anger.

 

His idle existence gave his mind time to wander, and Thomas often found his thoughts lingering on all the occasions he had been boarded by Hemsworth, how every single encounter had been full of animosity, but never from the boy, as it now occurred to Thomas. Hemsworth, always full of charm and easy smiles, appeared to enjoy the chase, treating it as if it were but a pleasant little game. The thought made Thomas seethe, but it also made his own anger feel utterly pointless and somehow misplaced. He did not truly hate the boy as he hated all the things Hemsworth represented, for he was free of duty and responsibility and able to follow his heart’s desires; the embodiment of everything Thomas was missing from his own life.

 

Every once in a while, when the ship fell quiet for the night and it was just Thomas and his thoughts, memories of what had happened in this very cabin in Nassau port wound their way to the surface, and Thomas was loathe to admit that being kissed by Hemsworth did not turn out to be the worst experience of his life. Not even close. Truthfully, it was rather pleasant.

 

Thomas shook his head, sitting up in the bed as he prepared to take his usual evening stroll around the small cabin. He looked out the window, but he had no idea of their current whereabouts, and it almost seemed like they were just sailing idly somewhere in the Caribbean, possibly in shallow waters to avoid running into any conflicts while Thomas recovered.

 

After he had stretched his legs, Thomas took a seat at the large desk by the windows. He unrolled some of the maps he found in a clay jar by the ornate table leg, spreading them on the lacquered surface, and he was surprised when one of the maps turned out to hold several smaller parchments all rolled together and tied neatly with a small strip of red silk ribbon. Intrigued, Thomas undid the ribbon and unrolled the first piece of vellum. It appeared to contain carefully scribbled notes, the black ink smudged in places, but quite legible. Amidst the writing were detailed illustrations of different ingredients, and Thomas realized he was looking at the instructions for how to make the red smoke pouches Hemsworth and his crew were notorious for using against the ships they preyed upon. It appeared to be Hemsworth’s own concoction and Thomas had to admit it was a very efficient way to render entire crews incapable of putting up a fight, and no doubt the reason why the Crimson Wind was often able to avoid bloodshed.

 

The rest of the parchments took Thomas by surprise, for they were all full of sketches of people in various settings, done with black coal. It shocked him to see Hemsworth possessed such talent, the sketches so lifelike that Thomas could almost picture the moments they were captured from. Smiling faces of the crew members, detailed illustrations of various ship parts, bustling ports, the open sea at dawn, each and every drawing lovingly sketched.

 

Thomas’s breath caught in his throat when he unrolled the final parchment and found himself staring at his own face. He appeared to be asleep in the picture, his face relaxed despite the bandages wrapped around his head. The intimacy of the moment the boy had captured in his drawing brought a heated blush to Thomas’s cheeks, but he was unable to set the parchment from his hands, staring at it for long moments as the ship rocked gently in the evening wind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chris stood at the helm, his hands wrapped loosely around the wooden spokes. The wind was blowing from the east, filling the sails and carrying them on with good speed. Next to him, Mr. Jenkins was idly whittling away at a piece of wood, whistling old drinking songs while the rest of the crew spent their afternoon in equal leisure. Those not appointed to some manner of duty were spending quality time with a choice bottle of rum and entertaining each other with a game of cards, for Chris allowed casual gambling aboard his ship.

 

He could sense the sudden shift in the relaxed mood as the cheerful chatter grew quiet and one by one, heads began to turn in the general direction of his cabin doors. His eyebrows leaped up when a moment later, Tom’s gaunt face came into view as he made his way to the upper deck. It had been weeks since Chris had seen him awake, and the smile on his face was truly delighted as Tom joined him at the helm.

 

Tom’s face was as white as chalk and he’d lost a notable amount of weight, but he was finally beginning to look like himself again. Dabney had removed the bandages around his face some time ago, and the wound was healing better than Chris had expected. He noticed Tom had trimmed his curls and shaved his face, the patchy beard he had grown while he’d been bedridden gone. Chris gave an approving smile, preferring the clean-shaven look, for it brought out Tom’s fine bone structure. He had ordered his men to provide Tom with some clean slops, but Tom had donned the blue coat and white waistcoat of his uniform, most of the buttons now missing. Chris had had young Lindy try and wash the uniform soon after the rescue, but the front of the vest still bore dark stains and a bullet-sized hole, and the coat had shrunk from the seawater, leaving Tom’s pale forearms exposed.

 

“Out for a stroll?” Chris asked cheerfully as Tom settled beside him, his movements still a bit stiff and cautious.

 

“I confess I’ve seen enough of your quarters and your musty bed to last me a lifetime.”

 

“Oh, now that’s a shame,” Chris smirked. “Would it help if you had company in said musty bed?”

 

Tom was too tired to be provoked, or perhaps he still had fever in his head, for he simply rolled his eyes as if Chris were a cheeky, ill-mannered boy. They lapsed into the first comfortable silence they had ever shared and Tom closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun, the salty wind playing with his loose hair. Chris was so taken by the sight that he didn’t notice the resentful looks thrown their way until Mr. Jenkins cleared his throat behind them. The man gave a telling nod toward the main deck, and as Chris surveyed the scene, it became quite obvious his crew did not appreciate the sight of a navy uniform aboard their ship.

 

Tom, too, seemed to be aware of the suspicious looks thrown his way. “Your crew does not appear to welcome me aboard,” he said, giving a quiet sniff as he eyed Mr. Halsey who sat on the nearby steps, sorting out a coil of rope.

 

“I’d wager it’s just your fancy blue coat they don’t like,” Chris pointed out.

 

Tom eyed his uniform for a moment, his gaze flicking to Halsey, who continued to stare at Tom expectantly.

 

“Your crew of miscreants does appear to prefer a nigh permanent state of shirtlessness.”

 

“Aye,” Chris nodded, lifting his brow suggestively. “Perhaps you should follow their example?

 

He was left gaping, when Tom began to tug on the sleeves of his uniform, removing the coat and his white vest before walking to the rail and tossing the garments into the sea without a second’s hesitation.

 

“They were missing far too many buttons,” was the only explanation Tom offered, and by the look on his face, he seemed to have some suspicions about the culprit.

 

He was far from shirtless and still the most pristine looking person aboard the ship, but the change was so drastic that all Chris could do was stare like a smitten fool. His crew, too, seemed to approve of Tom’s new look. They all went back to minding their own business, and after a while, the atmosphere on the ship returned to normal.

 

“How are you feeling?” Chris asked when he managed to find his voice again. He reached out to gently run his fingers over the reddened slash that ran across Tom’s right brow.

 

Tom gave him a quick glance from the corner of his eye, visibly flustered by Chris’s touch, and Chris drew his hand back, not wanting to press his luck.

 

“I’m certainly better than I was.” Tom glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Jenkins, who continued to whittle, his lips curved up in a knowing smile. “I, uh, I wish to thank you for saving my life and for allowing me the use of your quarters while I recovered.” The words sounded a bit forced, but Chris could tell they were genuine.

 

“I quite enjoyed the sight of you in my bunk,” Chris smirked.

 

“Does that dialogue actually work on anyone but inebriated tavern wenches, Mr. Hemsworth?” Tom asked, rolling his eyes.

 

Chris leaned a little closer and gave Tom a playful wink. “I suppose we’ll have to find out."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They spent the next few weeks sailing the waters near the Greater Antilles and Tom slowly became acquainted with the crew. There were some initial grumblings, but most of them dropped their suspicions after a few days, for every man aboard the ship had a past, and in more than one case it had been in the Navy. Chris did not make Tom sign the articles and he had promised to take him back to Kingston if he so wished, but it didn’t look like Tom had any intention of going back to his former life.

 

Chris had never held any regrets about his decision to desert, for his captain had been a senile old tyrant and the crew had been on the verge of mutiny. He’d lain low for the first few months after his escape, living on scraps in Port Royal, biding his time as he kept his eyes open for a potential way out of the heavily guarded port. His salvation came at the end of monsoon season when weather-worn ships began to arrive in the port, many of them in desperate need of reparation. The streets filled with news and gossip, and Chris soon heard of a red-sailed ship in need of a salty crew. Three days later, he’d found himself swabbing the decks of the Crimson Wind as the ship set sail for Singapore, and for the first time in his life, Chris was free.

 

Tom spent most of his evenings in the cabin, his nose buried in the books and manuscripts Chris had procured from the vessels they had intercepted over the years. As his health improved, he began to appear topside during every afternoon watch and Chris sometimes let him take the helm to let Tom feel useful. The presence of Mr. Dabney seemed to bring some comfort to him, and Chris suspected the doctor must have put in more than a few good words for him, for Tom appeared to have lost the old habit of wanting to bite Chris’s head off.

 

They intercepted a French schooner near St. Lucia, for Tom’s presence on the ship did not mean Chris and his crew had suddenly turned over a new leaf. Tom withdrew into the captain’s quarters while they boarded the French merchants and if he disapproved, he said nothing. There was a great celebration on deck that night and the men were drinking and entertaining themselves with hearty songs. Chris sat on the steps next to his cabin door, watching as Mr. Bosco and Mr. Davis danced the jig, the deck trembling from their enthusiastic jumps.

 

He saw his cabin door open as Tom peeked out from the narrow crack, scenting the air like a mouse, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of drunken sailors.

 

“Looking for someone?” Chris smiled. He had noticed Tom rarely showed up on deck unless Chris was present, and sure enough, Tom appeared to relax the moment he saw Chris lounging against the bannister.

 

Tom ignored the question, but he circled around to join Chris on the staircase. “Your men appear to be in high spirits tonight,” he observed.

 

“Aye, the French had a hold full of valuable provisions.” Chris raised his bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. “And plenty of rum,” he chuckled, offering Tom a drink. “You thirsty?”

 

“Oh no, absolutely not,” Tom snorted, shaking his head vigorously. “I’ve not forgotten what happened the last time I had a drink with you…”

 

“Mmm,” Chris hummed, bumping his shoulder against Tom’s, his smile lewd. “Neither have I.”

 

Tom let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. “Yes, well, I’m not in the mood to reminisce,” he muttered.

 

Chris snickered into his bottle and settled against the stairs, his mood pleasantly mellow. The sea around them was calm and there was only a gentle breeze, carrying the smell of salt and seaweed. There was loud cheering when someone managed to produce Mr. Barlow his old fiddle from the berth, and they all settled down to listen to the merry tunes Barlow conjured from the strings.

 

Chris set the bottle aside and crossed his hands behind his neck, observing the way Tom’s right leg had begun to tap to the beat of the music. The men around them were drunk, their conduct no doubt quite disorderly in Tom’s eyes, but Chris could tell Tom was enjoying himself, his posture relaxed. Tom seemed to sense he was being watched and he glanced over his shoulder, his smile so jovial that Chris wondered if Tom had shed more than his uniform when he tossed his old slops in the sea.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chris still slept with the rest of the men belowdecks, allowing Tom the use of his quarters, but he returned to his cabin one evening when they were moored near a cluster of small islands near Antigua, leaving the deck in Mr. Jenkins’s capable hands. He found Tom seated in the same chair where they had shared their first kiss, and the memory sent a pleasant jolt into his loins.

 

“I was hoping we might dine together?”

 

Tom put down the small leather-bound book he’d been reading and tilted his head, giving Chris an assessing look. “Well, I suppose I am rather tired of taking my suppers alone.”

 

Their supplies were still more than half full, and Mr. Feng had prepared them a fulfilling meal of salted pork, cheese, turtle soup and ale. After dinner, they sat together by the cushioned bay window and Chris pulled out a bottle of Cuban rum while Tom was served a cup of tea, a rare treat on a pirate ship, but the French schooner had been carrying a few boxes and Chris had made sure to grab some for Tom.

 

Tom’s eyes lit up when he saw the steaming pot and the delicate cup young Lindy had set on the table. “Oh,” he gasped, his chest rising with excited breaths.

 

Lindy appeared to have no idea how the English took their tea, and Chris shooed him away before the lad could ruin the whole thing, allowing Tom to take over. He watched as Tom prepared himself a cup of tea, and it was not a very complicated process, for they had no milk or lemons aboard the ship, but Tom didn’t seem to mind one bit. He exhaled a long, appreciative sigh as he brought the gold rimmed porcelain cup to his lips, sipping the fragrant drink.

 

“This is my first cup of tea in months.”

 

Chris smiled at the look of pure bliss that had settled on Tom’s features. He’d never managed to develop a taste for the bitter drink himself, and when he told this to Tom, the man looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head.

 

“I suppose you lot prefer something with a bit more kick,” Tom chuckled, and Chris was pleased to see the smile on his lips reached his eyes. He raised his bottle of rum in salute and clinked the neck softly against the side of Tom’s cup before taking a deep draught.

 

Out of his stiff and prim uniform, Tom looked significantly more approachable and quite a bit younger. Chris took note of the stiffness that lingered in his left arm and shoulder as Tom lifted his cup to his lips. The memory of his injury would probably stay with him for the rest of his days and give him occasional pain, but according to Mr. Dabney he had made a full recovery. And yet, as Chris watched him, he noticed Tom appeared somehow subdued, his weariness more of the mental than physical kind.

 

“Would you rather I left you alone?” Chris asked warily. They had dined together and he couldn’t be sure if Tom still wanted his company.

 

Tom glanced up from his cup and shook his head. “I’ve been alone for the last two months. I could use some company.”

 

“And you don’t mind if it’s a pirate?” Chris grinned.

 

Tom let out a huff of laughter. “I _suppose_ I can make an exception if the pirate is responsible for saving my life.”

 

They settled into an amiable silence and Chris watched as Tom stirred his tea with the small silver spoon Chris had nicked form the French merchant captain’s private quarters.

 

“I’m sorry about what happened to you and your crew,” Chris said tentatively, still a little troubled by the air of melancholy that lingered over Tom. “I hope you know that none of it was your fault.”

 

Tom’s eyes grew dark, and Chris watched his throat bob as he struggled to find his voice.  “I- I know I could have done something differently-“

 

“Not against Bloody Bill and his monster of a ship. That thing is nigh unbeatable,” Chris said. “I hear he usually prowls the waters of Barbary Coast, so it was dreadful bad luck that you happened to cross paths with him.”

 

“He profits from the slave trade?”

 

“Aye … But not all of us are like him,” Chris said, a little defensively. He knew Tom held a very low opinion of pirates, but he hoped the man could see Chris was nothing like the villain who had sunk is ship.

 

“I know,” Tom nodded, and Chris was taken aback by the softness in his eyes. “You know, I happened upon your drawings when I was studying your maps… You’re quite talented.”

 

Chris scratched his head, grinning sheepishly. He could feel his face heat up as he realized Tom must have seen the drawing Chris had sketched of him one night when Tom was finally starting to sleep his nights in peace.

 

“It’s just something to pass the time,” Chris replied, “I’m sure you know how dull days at sea can sometimes get.”

 

“I never wanted a life in the Navy, you know?” Tom said out of the blue. “The only reason I joined was because my father wanted his son to follow in his footsteps.” Tom shook his head and his voice took on an agitated tone. “I always hated it,” he grit out. “It was never _my_ dream.”

 

Chris was not all that shocked by the admission. He used the rocking of the ship as an excuse to lean a bit closer, resting his hand on Tom’s knee. “What did you want to be then?”

 

Tom blinked, staring at Chris as if the question had startled him. “I- I don’t rightly know,” he said, sounding a bit flustered. “I suppose I always wanted to try my hand at writing. I loved to sit in my father’s library as a small boy, reading for hours. I’d compose all these little stories in my head and tell them to my dog Domino.”

 

“I reckon you’d be better at it than you were as a navy man,” Chris noted, but there was no malice in his words and Tom seemed to be aware of it, for his mouth curved up into a soft smile.

 

“I reckon I would,” he agreed with a thoughtful look into his teacup. “Though I don’t really know what I’d write about. I’ve spent half of my life in the navy, following orders and saluting old men. That’s all I know.”

 

“Well… I suppose you could always write about a dashing young pirate captain and his crew of fearsome men.”

 

“Indeed,” Tom hummed, and Chris was heartened to see he was finally starting to loosen up.

 

“And it’s never too late to get some new experiences,” Chris added, his eyes dark with intent. He took the cup from Tom’s hands and set it on the small table along with his own drink, moving closer until his left knee was settled between Tom’s parted thighs.

 

Tom raised his brows in question, his blue eyes darting between their bodies. “Chris, I-I’ve never…”

 

“I have,” Chris murmured, crowding Tom against the cool glass of the window, careful not to put any pressure on his left shoulder. “Will you let me show you?”

 

They were both sober, but this time there was no hesitation in Tom’s eyes, and the moment Chris saw him nod, he leaned in and closed the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a soft but assertive kiss. Tom’s long nose brushed against Chris’s cheek and he cupped his jaw with gentle fingers to tilt Tom’s head to the side, chasing the bitter flavor of tea that lingered on his lips. Tom was delightfully vocal, moaning into the kiss as Chris reached down to cup his arse, his body arching up in such a touch-starved manner that Chris could hardly believe this was the same stiff and repressed officer who used to blush beet red just from Chris’s teasing words.

 

Their kiss came to an abrupt halt when Tom let out a pained grunt, and glancing down, Chris realized the large buckle on his belt was digging into Tom’s belly. “Sorry…” he stood up and reached down to undo the straps and buckles as Tom watched him from the daybed, his eyes fixed on the large bulge Chris sported in his breeches.

 

“You’re wearing far too many clothes, Mr. Hiddleston,” Chris observed, his smile wry as he came to stand between Tom’s parted thighs. He reached down for the hem of Tom’s loose-fitting shirt, and Tom raised his arms, allowing Chris to pull it over his head. He did not often part with his shirt in front of the crew unless the day got sweltering, but Tom had had enough sun for his shoulders to freckle. Chris traced the dusting of orange with his lips, lowering his gaze to the scar on Tom’s shoulder, his lust forgotten for the moment. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

 

Tom brushed his fingers against the small knot of red skin. “I am.”

 

He settled on the couch, one leg thrown over Tom’s hips to trap him in place as he began to thrust against the juncture of Tom’s thigh in a slow, teasing pace. He sealed his mouth against the smooth patch of skin under Tom’s jawline, and thrusting down, he could feel how hard Tom was inside his tightly cut breeches, already panting out shallow little breaths, the last of his inhibitions melting away as his hands began to roam on Chris’s body.

 

Chris reached between them to pop open the buttons on Tom’s dropfront breeches, but the moment his hand brushed against the tented fabric, Tom keened, grabbing hold of Chris’s wrist to grind against his palm. Chris felt the rapid pulses as Tom began to spill into his breeches, his cock throbbing against Chris’s hand as a spot of wetness slowly seeped through the fabric.

 

Tom slumped against the window, his kiss-swollen mouth hanging open. He looked utterly ravished, his eyes unfocused but yearning. He lowered his gaze to the front of Chris’s breeches and Chris reached down to palm himself.

 

“Want to feel it?”

 

Tom gave a nod, his tongue flicking across his lower lip. Chris took hold of Tom’s hand and pulled it down to his crotch, enjoying the way Tom’s breath caught in his throat at the contact. He rolled his hips into Tom’s palm, whispering in his ear, _give it a squeeze_ , _right there_ , and a moment later, Chris, too, was coming, spilling hotly into his smallclothes.

 

Tom exhaled a content little sigh, hand still pressed against Chris’s softening prick. “Do you have something more to show me?”

 

“Plenty more,” Chris nodded, brushing his thumb over the seam of Tom’s lips.

 

He decided to take Tom to the bed, thinking they’d be more comfortable on soft velvets and down-filled pillows. There was a rustle of clothes as they undressed themselves, eyes hungry and full of anticipation. Chris left his shirt and breeches in a pile on the floor while Tom took care to fold his own garments, setting his breeches neatly on a nearby chest along with his belt, stockings and buckled shoes.

 

The ship rocked gently in the azure waters of the bay, and as the sun disappeared into the horizon, the cabin was shrouded in deep shadows. Tom was still in the process of removing the sheer white smallclothes he wore under his breeches, and Chris took the opportunity to light the small lanterns that hung from the wooden beams around the cabin. He could feel Tom’s gaze on his naked body as he stood in soft yellow lamp light and there was a quiet gasp in the air between them, followed by gentle fingers on his back, tracing the old scars that matched the leather knots of the naval cat.

 

“Two older lads had locked me in a trunk for beating them at a game of cards and I failed to show up on deck for the morning watch.”

 

Tom had to be very familiar with the harsh punishments in the Navy, but Chris could still hear the horror in his voice. “How old were you?”

 

“I was twelve.”

 

Tom said nothing, but Chris exhaled a content sigh as he felt a string of soft kisses along his shoulders and the scarred planes of his back. He blew out the match and turned around to pull Tom into his arms. They were almost of equal height, though Chris had grown a little taller over the past year, and where he was healthy from the sun and fresh sea air, Tom was pale and more on the lanky side. Chris let his hands travel down along Tom’s narrow flanks, tracing the shape of muscle under soft skin until he reached the half hard prick that had been poking at his thigh for some time now. Tom rocked into his touch and Chris gave him a teasing tug, guiding him toward the bed.

 

“Go on, lie down,” Chris urged. He hurried across the cabin to rummage through one of the smaller chests.

 

“What are you doing?” Tom asked, giving Chris a puzzled look from the bed.

 

It had been a while since Chris had had company in his cabin, but he was relieved to find an unopened bottle of oil at the bottom of the chest, half buried under a string of pearls.

 

“Found it!” he announced cheerfully, holding up the small vial for Tom to see.

 

“Is that oil?” Tom asked. “Why do we need-“ Chris watched as realization dawned on Tom, his face visibly flushed even in the dim lamp light. “Oh,” he hummed, licking his lips. “Alright then.”

 

Chris joined Tom in the bed, settling on his knees between his long legs, taking hold of Tom’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “You’ve never been with a man before?” he asked, though he could already guess the answer.

 

Tom pursed his lips, his gaze flicking to the side as he shook his head. “Nor with a woman.” His palms grew sweaty against Chris’s hands, and he turned his face toward the wall, the flush on his cheeks spreading down to his chest.

 

“I had a feeling,” Chris said softly, brushing his thumbs against Tom’s wrist bones. “It’s alright. I’ll show you.”

 

He settled down more comfortably until he was lying between Tom’s thighs, and he lowered his head to lay a trail of kisses along the reddened skin of Tom’s scar, smiling when he felt Tom’s fingers card through his hair and reach for the leather cord tied at his nape. Tom gave it a tug and Chris’s plait unraveled, his shaggy hair spilling over his shoulders.

 

Chris spent a moment exploring the smooth skin below Tom’s ribs, kissing his way to the right nipple to give it a few teasing licks, feeling the way Tom’s hips jumped up at the contact. Untouched for years, Tom was eager for Chris’s caresses, visibly surprised by the way his body reacted to Chris’s questing fingers as they continued their exploration southward. Chris took great care to caress the soft skin at the juncture of Tom’s thighs, nuzzling at the sharp jut of his hipbones. He sat up and gave himself a moment to admire the sight of Tom’s lean body laid before him like a feast, the sight better than any of the dreams and fantasies he had conjured up in the quiet hours of the night.  He’d had many bedmates over the years, but he had never had the privilege of being someone’s first.

 

Tom watched him with half-lidded eyes, lifting his hips in a silent offering. His cock lay against his belly, hardening under Chris’s greedy gaze, the foreskin retracting to reveal the pink head. Chris leaned down to inhale his musk, brushing his lips against the clear droplet beading in the slit. Tom let out a soft, “oh”, his hips jerking up from the bed as Chris gave his prick a quick stroke with his tongue, the skin warm and slightly sticky from his first release.

 

“Spread your legs a bit more,” Chris instructed. “There you go, just like that.” He drew back, his cheeks dimpling when he saw the way Tom pouted at him. “Don’t worry, you’ll like the next part too.”

 

He poured some of the amber oil on his fingers and reached between Tom’s cheeks to seek out his hole, tracing the rim with one oil-slick finger. Tom let out a startled little huff and Chris glanced up, his smile playful.

 

“Here, give me your hand.”

 

Chris poured some oil on Tom’s fingers and guided his hand down to where Chris’s own fingers were tracing the tight furl of his opening. He used his left hand to spread Tom’s cheeks apart as he took hold of his long forefinger, guiding it gently inside.

 

Chris smirked at the startled expression on Tom’s face. “How does it feel?” he murmured.

 

“I… it feels – warm,” came Tom’s stunned reply.

 

Chris chuckled. “Aye. Warm and soft.” He bent down to kiss the side of Tom’s knee, eyes keen as he watched Tom withdraw his long finger only to push it back in. “Feels good too?”

 

“Mmmm,” Tom sighed, rocking his hips to thrust into his own hand.

 

Together they worked Tom open, loosening him gradually, and before long, Tom was accepting three fingers, two from Chris and one from his own hand. Chris used his thumb to stroke the oil slick rim as it stretched taut around their fingers. “That’s it,” he nodded, watching as Tom’s eyes rolled back with pleasure whenever Chris managed to hit the special spot the ladies of the Blue Orchid had once told him about.

 

“What- what is that?” Tom gasped, his hips jumping up as Chris continued to tease the spot inside him. He took in the sight of his leaking cock, his eyes fixed on the stringy beads of fluid welling up in the slit. Tom dipped his fingers into the pool of clear liquid on his belly. “Chris?”

 

“Shh, you’re going to like this,” Chris promised. He continued to milk Tom with one hand and used the other to stroke his prick where it bobbed between his lean thighs, flushed and dripping. Tom withdrew his own finger from his passage, squeezing the sheets in his fists, eyes overwhelmed as he stared at Chris.

 

“I’m going to spend again…” Tom wailed, toes curling against Chris’s ankles.

 

“Go on.” Chris leaned down to mouth at Tom’s jawline, careful not to settle too much weight on his shoulder. “Go on,” he whispered. The mahogany bed frame groaned as Chris continued to fuck Tom with his hand, his fingers unrelenting as they rubbed and massaged, driving Tom closer to the edge. Tom bit down on his knuckles, trying and failing to muffle the loud whine as he came for a second time, his seed spilling on his belly.

 

Tom released his hold on the sheets and reached down to where Chris’s fingers were still buried deep inside him.

 

“What was that?” he asked, voice shaky as he struggled to catch his breath.

 

“Just a little something I learned in Singapore,” Chris winked.

 

He’d been hard from the moment he’d seen Tom settle into his bed, but he was willing to forgo his own pleasure for a while longer and he rubbed his hands along Tom’s narrow hips in a gentle caress, giving him time to recover. Tom surprised him by reaching between Chris’s thighs without any prompting, his palm slick with the remaining oil from the vial. Chris let out a long, shuddering breath as he felt Tom wrap his fingers around his cock, the tentative stroke enough to tug on the coils of pleasure in his belly.

 

“It’s quite, uh, quite big.” Tom observed, and Chris heard the slight waver in his voice. “I do hope I’m able to… take you.”

 

Chris reached down to cup Tom’s cheek. “I won’t hurt you,” he murmured.

 

Reassured, Tom continued his caresses and Chris noticed he seemed almost breathless as he traced the thick vein on the underside of Chris’s cock, following it up to the slick head. Tom circled the beading slit with the pad of his forefinger, and Chris felt his sack draw up. His hips jerked forward and he let out a grunt as he realized he was only moments away from spilling.

 

“Tom… that’s enough,” Chris breathed, swatting at Tom’s caressing hands. “Let go, let go!”

 

He hurried to wrap Tom’s legs around his lower back, but his cock was already pulsing in his grip as he attempted to guide himself between Tom’s cheeks.

 

“Fuck…” Chris panted.

 

There was a wet splash against Tom’s opening, and Chris buried his face in the crook of Tom’s neck as his seed pooled on the sheets. He could feel Tom’s quiet laughter against his cheek.

 

“I’m sorry, I, uh, I suppose I got a bit carried away,” Tom murmured. He lowered his legs from where they’d been wrapped around Chris’ waist, but Chris shook his head.

 

“No, no, I can still go.” He took hold of his cock and guided himself inside, slow enough to give Tom a moment to adjust to his girth, but he had been thorough in his preparation and Tom’s body offered very little resistance. “That’s it, relax for me,” Chris breathed, his brow scrunched as droplets of sweat rolled down his neck. “Can I move?”

 

Tom watched him with fond eyes. He reached up to brush a loose lock of blonde hair behind Chris’s ear and kissed the side of his nose. “Go on.”

 

The world outside the cabin ceased to exist, and the only thing Chris was aware of was the sound of their heavy breaths and the sensation of Tom’s body against his. He was young and full of vigor, and he spilled inside Tom once more, but even that was not enough to sate his lust.

 

“You’re insatiable,” Tom gasped as Chris kept rutting into the mess he’d made.

 

Chris gave a smug nod, blinking away the sweat that had begun to gather in his eyes, the air in the cabin warm and humid. He reached down to wrap his fingers around Tom’s cock, and Tom jolted at the contact, already close to being too sensitive for touch.

 

“I don’t think I can…”

 

For Chris, the words were a challenge and he reached down to roll Tom’s sack in his palm, feeling the weight. “Doesn’t feel empty to me,” he smirked.

 

The vial of oil had been emptied, but Chris pulled his prick out and dipped his fingers inside Tom’s loose hole, catching his own seed in his palm as it began to leak out.

 

“Oh God…” Tom gasped, realizing what Chris had done as he slicked his fingers and reached up to wrap them around Tom’s flushed prick. He closed his eyes, the act too lewd for him, but his cock had never been harder and sure enough, Tom was coming a moment later, his chest rising with his rapid breaths as his cock spat out a pool of watery seed on Chris’s fingers.

 

Chris slipped back inside and fucked Tom through his orgasm, and it only took a few more thrusts before Chris, too, felt his release crash over him, the pleasure bordering on painful as he spent himself deep inside Tom’s body.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The midnight bell rang to signal that it was time for the middle watch to climb on deck while the men from the first watch headed below for a few hours of well-deserved sleep. Tom stirred awake at the sound, the fog of sleep lifting gradually. He became aware of the empty spot in the sheets next to him, but when he opened his eyes, he saw Chris was seated at the other end of the bed, his knees drawn up to support the makeshift easel in his lap. He was as naked as he had been when Tom had fallen asleep in his arms, and Tom could hear the scratch of coal against vellum.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

 

Chris looked up from his drawing, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Capturing a moment I would not soon wish to forget.”

 

Tom reached up to arrange his sleep-mussed curls, a little self-conscious. “Wouldn’t you rather capture a moment where I’m awake for once?”

 

“Mmmm,” Chris nodded. His eyes twinkled in the amber lamp light and he set his easel aside to grab the end of the sheet, edging it slowly down along Tom’s body. “I would also rather capture you naked.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure a man as depraved as you would,” Tom snorted, and there were peals of laughter between them as Chris yanked the covers down and leaned in to pepper Tom’s chest and belly with wet kisses.

 

They settled down after a moment of light-hearted grappling, and Tom was still chuckling into Chris’s shoulder when he felt something hard poking at his thigh. Chris peered up at him, his smile lewd.

 

“Good lord… You really are insatiable!” Tom shook his head in amused disbelief. “There’s a very real chance I won’t be able to walk straight for a few days.”

 

The admission only managed to deepen Chris’s smirk, but Tom caught the flash of genuine worry in his eyes as he brushed his fingers against the scar on Tom’s face. “I hope I wasn’t too rough?”

 

Tom took Chris’s hand in his own, entwining their fingers. “No, love, you weren’t.”

 

Chris leaned closer to rub the tip of his nose against Tom’s cheek. “I’m sorry you never caught me,” he said, and it was almost endearing how young he looked in his open sincerity. “But you did catch a part of me. The most important part.”

 

“And what’s that, Mr. Hemsworth?” Tom inquired, a wry smile splayed across his lips.

 

Chris took hold of Tom’s right hand and brought it up to his chest. Tom watched him, the gesture sweet but so theatrical that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Is it your heart?” he snickered.

 

“Aye, my heart.”

 

“I fear I must once again point out that your attempts at flattery and wooing leave much to be desired."

 

The look on Chris’s face was almost unbearably smug as he leaned closer, pressing his lips to Tom’s ear. “They worked on you, didn’t they?”

 

“Aye, I suppose they did,” Tom laughed softly, welcoming the possessive kiss Chris pressed to his lips.


End file.
